


clip these wings

by pieandsouffles



Series: everyone bleeds [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheating, Dick gets kidnapped (again), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Inspired by the Handmaid's Tale, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Not Lois-Bashing I promise, POV Clark Kent, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandsouffles/pseuds/pieandsouffles
Summary: “How do they do it in the movies?” Clark asked, attention entirely focused on Bruce now, fingers tracing the veins that ran down his arm into his palm. Bruce shuddered.“They get a room,” he whispered.Or, the one where the author watched the Handmaid's tale and couldn't fucking stop herself from writing this bit of sin





	1. (look at us, lying here) dreaming, pretending

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'd like to preface this by saying that I'm not usually big into cheating fics but I was watching the Handmaid's tale 1x05 "Faithful" and there's this scene where June and Luke are in bed at the end and dialogue transpires and the plot bunny just appeared out of nowhere and I literally started writing it that night. So anyways. I tried to make this as Lois-positive as I could (I love Lois! I do!), and as in-character as I could, but hey, whatever. Just..... fucking take it ugh get this away from me I have so many other fics I should be writing 
> 
> titles stolen from "Nobody Needs to Know" from the Last Five Years (which, honestly, isn't the most fair representation of the relationship dynamics in this fic but it is, as LMM called it, the ultimate cheating song so here we are)

“Clark?”

Lois’ voice was slurred with sleep as she shifted on their bed. Clark froze in place, one arm out of his suit. He still smelled like the fire he’d helped put out in Mexico City on his way back from the earthquake in Brazil. His suit was tattered slightly from where a large piece of rubble had fallen on him as he tried to help a child out of the wreckage in Rio. It was late, and he knew that Lois had an interview with some important politician the next morning, so he’d tried to sneak in as quietly as he was able.

Apparently, he hadn’t been quiet enough.

“Hey, Lo, go back to sleep,” he murmured, super-speeding out of his uniform and crossing the room to place a kiss on her forehead. She leaned up into the contact until her lips found his. It was sweet, chaste, and Clark pulled away before it could go any further. “Sorry I woke you.”

“You smell like smoke,” she said, and she sounded a bit more awake at the possibility of a story. “What happened?”

“Just an apartment fire in Mexico, nothing to worry about,” Clark said, brushing her hair back from her face and crossing their small bedroom to the ensuite bathroom. “I just need to shower, then I’ll come to bed.”

Lois rolled over, her breathing already slowing, slipping back into sleep. “Okay,” she mumbled into her pillow, and Clark smiled, but it was a pained thing.

He remembered how it used to be. How Lois would wait up for him, just to make sure he was all right, how she’d track his progress via Twitter as he patrolled the globe. He would come home, and she would break him into a thousand pieces under her capable hands, until he was aware of nothing but the taste of her lips and the way she shouted his name when she came. They would shower, and she would wash the grime away from his skin and he would watch the play of water over her body, how it dripped off her nose when she tilted her head up to kiss him.

Christ, he remembered.

Clark showered mechanically, unheeding of the scalding temperature of the water. He felt numb, more so than he could ever remember feeling. He loved Lois. His partner, his wife, his everything. She didn’t have to stay up and wait for him to finish saving the world. She had never been that type of girl, and he cursed himself for ever thinking otherwise. They had been married for two years, and of course things would cool down in the bedroom. He couldn’t expect her to put her sleep on hold the night before an interview just to wait for him to get done playing hero.

Clark would be there in the morning when she woke, maybe with breakfast in bed. He would make it up to her.

He dried off and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers before climbing into the bed beside her. She was asleep again, her profile illuminated by the weak light of the streetlamp that shone through their small bedroom window. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to show her how much he cared.

 _No_ , he thought, leaning back against his pillow and closing his eyes. _Better to let her sleep. I’ll be here in the morning_.

He wasn’t.

#

His League communicator went off in the dark hours of pre-dawn, and he bit back a curse as he rolled out of bed and walked into the next room to answer so that he wouldn’t wake Lois. It was Batman’s private line, and he was tempted to remind Bruce that just because he could afford to be nocturnal, not everyone had the same luxury.

“What do you want, B?” he said gruffly, voice scratchy with sleep. “I have work in the morning.”

“Robin’s missing,” Batman said, and before Clark was consciously aware of his actions, he’d super-sped his way into his uniform (which was still sporting a terrific tear down one shoulder) and was airborne for Gotham.

“I’m on my way,” he said, careening above the lights of Metropolis’ sister city at what was, frankly, a reckless speed even for him. “Cave?”

“Yes,” Batman said curtly, and Superman was through the entrance and in the main chambers of the Batcave in less than five seconds.

Batman was standing by the monitors, pacing restlessly, anxiety seeping from him in what seemed to Superman to be a tangible cloud.

“Explain,” Superman said, feeling the last vestiges of sleep draining from his body as he moved to look at the information Bruce had pulled up on the screen.

“Hugo Strange escaped from Arkham about four hours ago,” Batman said, pausing to look at the map of Gotham he’d pulled up. “Robin and I were on separate patrol routes. It was a… test. To see how well he’d do on his own.”

Superman glanced sideways to look at Batman. Even without peeking under the cowl, he could see the worry lines in the set of Batman’s mouth. “And he didn’t come home?” he ventured, when it seemed that Batman had lost his train of thought.

“No, I recalled him as soon as I knew Strange was out,” he said, crossing to the monitors and zooming in on the Narrows. “We were going to meet at Wayne Tower and determine a plan from there. I lost contact with him after only five minutes. The tracking chip in his suit has been disabled.” Batman turned to Superman, and now it was painfully easy to see the panic in his usually controlled features.

“It’s just Strange, B, I’m sure-”

“No,” Batman interrupted. “I should have told you when it happened a few months back - Strange knows who I am. I can’t - he _can’t_ know Robin’s identity, too.” He paused and took a deep breath. “He’s my son, Clark. I can’t lose him.”

Clark took a step forward and clasped Bruce’s shoulder with a grip strong enough to bruise. “Whatever you need, B. Anything. Just tell me what to do.”

#

Two hours later, Hugo Strange was back in Arkham and Dick was in bed, shaken but mercifully unharmed. Clark knew they’d been lucky. Strange was unlikely to kill Robin, due to his weird, almost Joker-level obsession with Batman, but he could have hurt him severely. They’d arrived in time to prevent Strange from unmasking Robin, and Clark only had to take one canister of poison gas to the face while Bruce got Dick out safely. It hadn’t affected Clark’s nervous system, so all things considered, not his worst night. Clark waited in the cave while Bruce carried Dick upstairs; the boy had been too exhausted from the night’s events even to stay awake during the brief flight home in the Batplane.

Bruce reentered the cave, still wearing the suit. He’d taken the cowl off as soon as they got inside, and even though Clark could see through solid objects, it was always strange for him to see Bruce this way. Batman, Bruce, and Brucie all occupied distinct places in Clark’s life, and seeing the boundaries between them blur was never something he got used to.

“Thank you,” Bruce said as he began to take off his gauntlets. “I’m sorry to have pulled you away from your bed.”

Clark stared at him blankly as Bruce released the clasps that kept the top half of his suit in place. “Bruce, you know you never have to apologize for that.”

“Still,” Bruce said stubbornly as he continued to strip himself of Batman’s armor. “You have work in a few hours.”

“You know I don’t need as much sleep as other people,” Clark reminded him gently. “Besides, it’s not like they can fire me. You do own the _Planet_.”

“Who said _I_ wouldn’t fire you?” Bruce said absently, bending down to work on the armor that encased his thighs. He hissed quietly, so low that anyone but Clark probably would not have heard it.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asked, in front of him in a fraction of a second, hands gently examining Bruce’s sides. When he found no external wounds, he x-rayed Bruce’s torso, and discovered two cracked ribs. “Why didn’t you say something?” he murmured, forcing Bruce’s hands away from where he’d been trying to pry Clark off him.

“I can take care of myself,” Bruce said, needled.

Clark rolled his eyes. “Obviously. But I’m here.” He got down on his knees in front of Bruce, carefully working the clasps on the suit so that he wouldn’t accidentally break something trying to get Bruce out of it. “You already asked me for help once tonight. I feel all right pushing my luck.”

Bruce sighed but leaned back against the monitor chair to let Clark help. _He must be tired_ , Clark thought absently. Bruce was the most stubborn, self-reliant person Clark knew, and that included Lois. He bent closer to get the armor off from around Bruce’s shins, shoulder pressing against his left thigh as Clark wound his arm in between Bruce’s legs.

And then - so quietly that Clark certainly would have missed it, were they not so close together in a room devoid of all sound save for the rustling of bats - Bruce _moaned_.

It took Clark a half second to realize that the sound had been a subvocalization, and another half second to realize how close he was to Bruce, how intimate his position. 

It took no time at all for Clark to realize how close his face was to Bruce’s crotch.

His fingers stilled as the right shin guard clattered to the floor. Mind racing, still trying to comprehend what he’d heard, contextualize it, he shifted so that he could work on the last bit of armor that encased Bruce’s left shin. 

Distantly, Clark was aware of Bruce’s hand clenching, knuckles straining white in an apparent attempt to control some unwanted reaction. He shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, but Clark’s hands were on Bruce’s calf muscles and he felt it. Bruce was uncomfortable. He was -

The left shin guard fell to the ground, but Clark didn’t stand up. He moved back onto his heels and looked up at Bruce -

_what the hell am I doing_

\- from underneath his eyelashes, face directly in front of what was, not five minutes before, covered by the suit’s codpiece.

For his part, Bruce looked stricken, eyes wide and dark with only a sliver of blue around the edges of his pupils. Clark knew without having to listen that Bruce’s heart was racing.

“What are you doing,” Bruce said, the question falling so flat it sounded like a statement.

Clark watched his own hands move, as if he couldn’t control them, to Bruce’s hips. His thumbs unconsciously traced Bruce’s insanely defined inguinal crease, running from his sides down, down -

“Clark!” Bruce almost shouted, taking a startled step back. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t-” Clark said, pausing to stand up. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Bruce, who had backed up another two steps, placing enough distance between them that Clark could no longer feel the heat radiating from his body, could no longer smell the scent of sweat and leather that always clung to Bruce after a night of patrol. “I don’t know,” he said again, more quietly, staring down at his hands like they’d betrayed him. His wedding ring glinted back at him, and he wanted to take it off and throw it against the wall. He wanted to solder it to his skin with heat vision so he could never take it off.

He wanted.

Bruce’s pupils were still blown, and he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. You weren’t doing anything. You’re married. That was an overreaction.” He didn’t even seem to believe himself.

“An overreaction,” Clark repeated slowly.

Bruce’s lips thinned and he turned away. “Yes. I’m sorry. You should leave.”

And Clark could see it in the set of his shoulders, the accumulated guilt of a man who carried the world on his back, who took responsibility for everything when it came to the people he cared about. Clark knew that posture, knew that tone, because he adopted it every day. And at the end of the day, who did Bruce have to turn to? Dick was still a child. And there were some problems even Alfred could not solve.

“Bruce,” Clark said, reaching out to grab his shoulder in a cruel mimicry of their conversation not three hours before.

“So what, then?” Bruce said, whirling to face him. “How would this work? You come upstairs, leave in time to make it to the _Planet_ at eight?” 

“Maybe,” Clark said, fingers trailing down Bruce’s arm until they found his wrist, which had been grazed by a bullet earlier in the night. The blood was already dried, and Bruce flinched, like he wanted to yank his hand away. “We couldn’t do my place.”

Bruce’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. “Lois _would_ complicate that arrangement.”

“How do they do it in the movies?” Clark asked, attention entirely focused on Bruce now, fingers tracing the veins that ran down his arm into his palm. Bruce shuddered.

“They get a room,” he whispered.

Clark frowned as he traced the abrasions on Bruce’s knuckles. “Somewhere sleazy, a cheap motel? Something Matches might book.”

Bruce’s breathing had quickened, shallowed. Clark had never seen him so discomposed. “Or maybe it’s not a cheap room at all. Maybe it’s a suite at the Ritz Metropolis.”

Unthinkingly, Clark pulled Bruce’s hand to his mouth and began to kiss his knuckles, as if he could make the sting of the fight disappear. “With windows that look out over the whole city,” he murmured against Bruce’s hand. “So high up it’s like you’re flying.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, his voice strangled and cracked. “But it would never happen.”

Clark dropped Bruce’s hand. “Wouldn’t it?” he asked, searching the face of the man across from him, half-expecting Bruce to pull out Kryptonite just in case Clark was being mind-controlled again.

Bruce simply looked at him and said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Bruce said, turning his back on Clark. “I’m me. And you’re you.” Clark watched him walk away, wanting nothing more than to go after him, but something kept him rooted to the spot. “Good night, Clark.”

“Good night, Bruce,” Clark whispered, and the sound echoed off the walls of the cave, coming back to haunt him long after Bruce had disappeared up the stairs.

#

Lois noticed, of course. Lois always noticed.

“Hey Smallville,” she said when he got home. There had been a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter, so it seemed Clark hadn’t made it back in time to make her breakfast.

He’d spent the better part of two hours flying around the globe, rescuing kittens out of trees in London and stopping a terrorist attack in Ukraine. He’d gotten home a bit after seven, having lost track of time as he tried to take his mind off whatever had happened in the Batcave.

“Hey, Lo,” he said, starting the shower while she applied mascara. “Sorry again about waking you up last night.”

“That’s all right,” Lois said easily, smiling in Clark’s direction even though he was in the shower; she knew he could see her. “Where did you disappear to, though? I thought you said you were done for the night.”

“I was,” Clark said. “But Batman called at, like, 2:30. Robin was kidnapped.”

“Again?” Lois said, sounding very much like she wanted to point out that it happened so frequently Batman needn’t have called in Superman.

Clark stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. “It was Hugo Strange.”

“Oh,” said Lois in a very small voice. “Isn’t he in Arkham?”

“He escaped. I dropped him back off this morning.”

She nodded. “So Robin’s safe?”

“Yes,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair before giving up on the whole endeavor and shoving his glasses on his face.

“You spend a lot of time with Batman, Clark,” Lois said casually, but Clark immediately got defensive.

“He’s my friend.”

Lois held up her hands in a surrendering motion. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a problem. Just - will I ever get to meet him?”

“You’ve met Batman before,” Clark pointed out. It was true. She’d met most members of the League.

“You know what I meant.”

Clark sighed. This was a repeat discussion between them - who the different members of the Justice League really were, underneath the masks. 

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” he said. “If he wants you to know, you’ll know. But he is incredibly protective of his identity. You know that, honey.”

“Yeah, I do,” Lois said, sounding resigned. “Still, a girl can hope.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Clark said. “You ready?”

Lois smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss. “Yep. Let’s go.”


	2. back into battle (till I don't know when)

Clark went a whole week without thinking about it, and things went back to normal.He and Lois had sex three times. He prevented twenty-six robberies, caught two serial killers, got forty-eight people out of burning buildings, and saved seven cats from trees. He even battled and re-imprisoned Silver Banshee _and_ Toyman.

He did not see Bruce at all.

Which is why, come the following Thursday, Clark was a little alarmed to see Batman when he arrived at the Watchtower for monitor duty.

“I thought I was with Flash tonight,” Superman said as casually as he was able, sitting gingerly in the chair next to Batman’s.

Batman grunted, flipping casually between viewscreens. “He had a date. Needed someone to cover for him.”

Superman stared. “ _You_ did a favor for _Barry_?”

He couldn’t tell, but he thought Batman might have rolled his eyes under the cowl. “I’m not heartless. Flash is… useful. It’s better for team dynamics when-”

“Oh god, stop, please,” Superman interrupted, spinning to face the monitors and putting his head in his hands. “If I have to hear you speak clinically about “team dynamics” one more time, I’ll punch you through a wall.”

Batman didn’t scoff, but it was a near thing. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Superman agreed wearily, settling back in to watch the monitors. A half hour passed in comfortable, if not peaceful, silence, until something caught Superman’s eye.

“Hey, B? I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure the sky shouldn’t be doing that,” Superman said, pointing to a monitor that was showing Los Angeles, where a vortex of sorts had opened up over the Santa Monica Pier.

“I’ll get the Javelin,” Batman said, already in motion. “Contact the others. Tell Flash he doesn’t get out of global crises just for some sex.”

Superman rolled his eyes, but did as Batman said. The first alien ship flew through a portal just as he opened up the comm channel, and he swore lowly as he watched three more immediately follow. He raced after Batman, already planning exactly what he was going to hit first.

#

They hadn’t stopped coming.

Ship after ship poured through the vortex, and Superman was reminded of the way ants would flood out of an anthill if you threw poison into one of its openings. Lantern was forming constructs left and right, and even Flash had arrived on the scene just moments after Batman and Superman arrived in the Javelin. J’onn was already airborne, and Cyborg was trying to hack into their systems.

Superman did what he did best: punch.

It was fine until Batman managed to get blown out of the alien ship he was attempting to commandeer, and Superman swooped in to catch him. Superman didn’t know how many times Batman had berated him on the futility of such rescues; he did, after all, have a well-stocked utility belt with high-tech grapnels, and certainly didn’t need to be saved.

Unfortunately for Superman, the aliens had somehow managed to get ahold of Kryptonite, and he realized too late that they had been _expecting_ him to come to Batman’s rescue. They’d positioned a ship at exactly the right angle to launch a projectile at him, and as soon as he had Batman in his arms, they fired.

The spear hit underneath his left shoulder with a sick _thud_ , excruciating pain lancing out from the site of the injury and causing him to lose his grip on Batman, who, of course, fired off a grapnel at a nearby building. Superman had just enough time to see Batman land safely on a balcony before he was falling, vision clouding and graying at the edges.

He felt his body hit the pavement back-first, causing the spear to shatter and small pieces of Kryptonite to dig into his already weak skin. The last thing he heard was a low bellow from somewhere above him before everything went black.

#

Clark woke slowly, blinking into grudging awareness and rudely being met with bright lights and the overpowering smell of antiseptic. His shoulder was sore, but he’d been placed under UV lamps to help him heal, so the injury wasn’t exactly painful. He opened his eyes fully, and noticed for the first time that he was not alone.

A dark shape sat slouched by his beside, and Clark immediately identified Bruce, cowl on the floor and Batsuit still covered in dust and blood from the battle. Clark managed enough energy to x-ray him, and when he didn’t find any pressing injuries, felt fairly assured that the blood on the suit wasn’t Bruce’s. The way his neck was twisted in sleep must have been uncomfortable, and Clark suspected Bruce would regret it when he woke.

He shifted on the bed to resume blood flow to his legs, wincing as the feeling of soreness bloomed into being on his back as well as his shoulder. Bruce, ever watchful, snapped awake.

“Hey,” Bruce said, and his voice was hoarse.

Clark smiled. “Hi. How long was I out?”

Bruce’s expression changed from something resembling concerned to thunderous in half a second. “Almost sixteen hours. What were you _thinking_.”

Clark rolled his eyes and settled back against his pillows. “Look, I know you don’t like it when I act without planning things through-”

“This was more than that,” Bruce interjected, “and you know it. You _knew_ I could get myself out of that, and still you insisted on treating me like Lois fucking Lane-”

“Don’t you bring Lois into this, she has _nothing_ to do with it,” Clark protested hotly.

“Doesn’t she?” Bruce hissed, pinning Clark with a glare that made him feel like his insides were dissolving.

Bruce was right. He was nearly always right, and Clark was sick of it.

“You’re becoming a distraction, Clark,” Bruce admitted, looking away out the broad windows of the med bay to Earth, spinning uncaringly below. “After they hit you, I lost control. All I could focus on was making sure you were all right. It nearly compromised me,” he added, turning back to look at Clark. “It can’t happen again.”

And Clark - god, help him, Clark wanted to take Bruce in his arms and kiss the omnipresent scowl on his face, trace his hands over every inch of his body, make him understand exactly why he’d tried to save him when he didn’t need saving. Reflexively, Clark moved his thumb to touch the ring he wore on his left hand, only to realize he wasn’t wearing it. He’d taken it off before going to the Watchtower for monitor duty.

_Fuck._

“You stay here and rest,” Bruce said, standing. “I have to get back to Gotham.”

Clark blinked. “Have you - you’ve been here the whole time, haven’t you?”

Bruce looked down at him, his face perfectly blank. “I’m going to be in Metropolis for a charity event this week. It won’t be for business.” He hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his features, and then he stretched out a hand and tucked Clark’s spit curl back into place atop his head. His fingers were infuriatingly gentle, and they lingered just long enough for Clark to want to chase them when Bruce withdrew his hand. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

He was halfway out the door when Clark called out after him. “Where is it? The charity event.”

Bruce paused in the doorway, then turned to look back at him, composed once more. “The Ritz,” he said, then strode out of the room before Clark could ask him to stay.

#

Lois had been worried, but Batman had called her and informed her of the situation following the battle, so she knew Clark hadn’t _died_. Still, Clark supposed he should feel bad that she was left in the dark for so long.

He couldn’t. His thoughts didn’t afford time for Lois, between everything else. Nearly every moment of spare time he had was filled with thoughts of Bruce.

It was _wrong_. Clark was _married_. 

He managed to convince Perry to let him attend the charity function, citing political bargaining over development of Gotham’s port as his reason for wanting to attend. Metropolis had been stealing port business from her sister city for decades, and the loss of revenue was starting to take its toll on Gotham, a city already more overrun with crime than any other urban center in the country.

If asked, Clark didn’t think he could explain his real reasons for wanting to go to the event. It’s not as if they were going to… _do_ anything. He couldn’t do that to Lois. He _wouldn’t_.

Still, it seemed as if Bruce had invaded every corner of his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it might be worth it, just _once_ , just to get Bruce out of his system. Then they could go back to normal, to their friendship, to helping each other out on missions and sharing the occasional cup of coffee on the Watchtower or in the Cave.

He wouldn’t do anything. He just wasn’t that kind of person. He was _Superman_ , for Christ’s sake. And Superman didn’t do morally reprehensible things like cheat on his wife.

And neither - neither did Clark Kent.


	3. nobody needs to know

He caught an Uber to a bar a block west of the Ritz and walked from there to the press area outside the main ballroom, looking as unkempt as possible. Lois had wanted to fix his bowtie, her fingers reaching up to adjust it, but Clark had jerked away.

“It’s part of my disguise,” he said lamely, knowing it wasn’t the full truth. There was only one person he wanted touching his tie that evening, and if he had his way, it wouldn’t be staying on for very long.

“Okay,” she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Look like an idiot, Smallville. See if I care.”

He had kissed her goodnight, hoping his hands didn’t tremble, hoping his face didn’t betray any emotion that didn’t belong there. Fortunately, he was a good liar.

The event was some sort of auction being held in support of a new hospital wing at Mercy General, a low-cost option that rested conveniently in between the boundaries of both cities. As a result, both the elite from Gotham and Metropolis would be in attendance tonight.

Clark knew that Bruce wouldn’t show until later in the evening, after everyone had drunk too much wine to question the fact that he wasn’t drinking any at all, so Clark stood off against the wall and listened in to conversations from next to a very nice potted palm. He scowled as he overheard Bruno Manheim talking D.C. politics with a Senator from West Virginia. It was only a matter of time before Manheim slipped up again -

He was startled out of his eavesdropping by shrill laughter emanating from across the ballroom floor. It only took a fraction of his attention to pinpoint the source, because he already knew what he was looking for.

Bruce Wayne was by the entryway, taking a glass from a passing waiter before turning to grin lecherously at one of his two dates. Clark watched as the crowd parted around him, a few socialites latching onto him as he went. One of his dates was drawn away by the Gotham Knights’ quarterback, and Bruce managed to shrug free of the other by the time he reached the hors d’oeuvres.

Although he’d been planning on staying on the outskirts of the crowd, Clark found his feet working their way in towards the center of the ballroom. He forced himself to stop and talk for a while to one of Metropolis’ city council members, just so that he could actually write the story he’d promised Perry, subconsciously cataloguing the steady bass of Bruce’s heart.

God, he was sick. He even knew Bruce’s heartbeat, could pick it out even when it was competing with three hundred others, all in close proximity. He traced his ring with his thumb, hating the feeling, torn between whether to leave it on or take it off.

“Thank you, Councilwoman,” Clark said after he’d exhausted all his questions, and moved on quickly to one of Gotham’s Port Commissioners, determined to distract himself so that he didn’t do something terrifically stupid. He listened as Bruce worked his way steadily across the room until he was less than five feet behind Clark, regaling a socialite with a long-winded story of how terrible the Gotham Mayor was at squash. Clark gritted his teeth - whenever he was around billionaire Bruce, he had to fight back the nearly overwhelming compulsion to throw the playboy out the nearest window.

“Thank you for all your time, sir,” Clark said politely to the Commissioner. “I wish you luck with the new terminal.” He didn’t even wait for an answer before turning around to face Bruce and the woman.

“Ah, Mr. - Kant, is it?” Bruce’s eyes were glazed over and his smile wide and vapid.

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “No, Mr. Wayne, that’s the philosopher. It’s Kent.”

The girl who Bruce had been talking to, who Clark was pretty sure was Silver St. Cloud, laughed airily and edged away as soon as she saw the notebook in Clark’s hand.

“I’ll get us some drinks, Brucie,” she said, pausing for half a second before delving into the press of people around them.

“Kant, Kent. Close enough,” Bruce said as she disappeared. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you at one of these things, Kent.”

And this - Clark _did_ like this. This little game they played. Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist of Gotham, making small talk with Smallville’s very own Clark Kent, _Daily Planet_ reporter.

League communicators in both their ears.

Clark looked determinedly to the left of Bruce, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve been a little busy.”

Bruce took a step closer. “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Clark could smell his cologne - different from what Brucie would usually wear, it was rich and dark with woodsy tones and a hint of musk. He wanted to lean in, lick a line up Bruce’s throat, try to taste it.

And, as if they weren’t in the middle of a crowded ballroom, Brucie’s face transformed into Bruce’s, and he pressed his shoulder against Clark’s, put his mouth next to Clarks’ ear.

“Ten minutes,” he breathed, lips barely moving, but Clark heard him. “Then you follow.”

It wasn’t a question. Clark drew breath to argue, but before he could figure out what to say, Bruce was gone. Clark made his way back to the perimeter of the room in a daze, tracking Bruce’s heartbeat as it moved up the elevator, all the way to -

Activating his x-ray vision, Clark looked up, and found Bruce opening the door to the Presidential suite, the most luxurious room at the Ritz which took up almost the entirety of the top floor.

_With windows that look out over the whole city. So high up it’s like you’re flying._

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this to Lois.

Clark stood paralyzed by the wall, toying with the ring on his finger. _It’s only one time. Just once. She never needs to know. Nobody needs to know._

He swallowed hard and took a hesitant step away from the wall, towards the elevators. _Just once, to get it out of your system. Then you refocus on her, be the best husband you’ve ever been. Flowers, bring her flowers._

_What the hell are her favorite flowers?_

And then Clark was in the elevator, removing his ring, slipping it into his pocket. He expected his heart to be racing, but it was strangely calm, and Clark realized that for the first time in ages, he felt at peace. Like somehow, impossibly, this was where he was supposed to be.

As if from a distance, Clark felt himself step out of the elevator and cross the small hallway to the door of the suite. Bruce was inside, his heartbeat strong, steady, and at an athlete’s crawl. Clark measured his breathing against the rhythm, lifted his hand, and knocked.

And, because he was Superman, he heard the way Bruce’s heart literally skipped, the small intake of breath from the other side of the door, the footsteps as Bruce crossed the room.

He answered the door, jacket off and his bow tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. He’d ruffled his hair out of its impeccable, slicked-back style, likely out of nerves, and he was holding a glass of scotch in his hand that Clark suspected was his second or third.

He looked _incredible_.

“Clark,” Bruce said, and it would have sounded casual if Clark couldn’t hear his rapidly quickening heartbeat. “You came.” He stepped aside to let Clark into the room.

The suite was the nicest hotel room Clark had ever seen. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching out along the entire back wall, and he really did feel like he was flying, the way he could see all the way from Metropolis across the bay to the glittering witch-light of Gotham.

“Were you expecting me to stand you up?” Clark asked as Bruce handed him a glass of scotch from the bar by the east wall.

Bruce shrugged and sat down on the couch that faced the windows. He lounged back into the armrest, but Clark could see the lines of tension in his body, and knew that the position was anything but casual.

“Yes,” he said at last, and Clark found himself magnetically pulled to the couch, though he made sure to sit on the opposite end. “What _are_ we doing, Clark?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? “I was hoping you could tell me,” Clark said, then drank half his scotch in one swallow. It was good liquor, smooth, and it burned all the way down his throat until it settled low and hot in his stomach. God, how he wished he could get drunk.

“You love her, don’t you?” Bruce said, but it was a genuine question, not a statement of fact.

Clark cleared his throat. “She’s my wife.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Does it matter?”

Bruce sighed, drained his scotch, and set the glass down on the table. “No. I guess not.” He removed one cufflink, then the other, setting them carefully on the coffee table where he’d just put his scotch glass. Clark watched, transfixed, as Bruce’s hands moved to his shirt buttons and undid the one nearest the collar.

“Stop,” Clark said, but his voice was embarrassingly strangled.

Bruce’s heart literally ceased beating for a half second. “Did you change your mind?” he asked quietly, looking vulnerable for the first time since Clark entered the room.

“No,” said Clark, shaking his head. “If we’re going to this… if _I’m_ going to do this… I want to do it right.”

Bruce stared at him, frowning just slightly, then stood. “Well then, Mr. Kent,” he said, holding out his hand. “Right this way.”

Clark took the offered hand and let Bruce pull him to a set of double doors along the north wall of the room, which opened to reveal the most massive bed Clark had ever seen, and another set of floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. Anyone could see them, were they in the right place.

It didn’t matter.

Bruce’s hand was warm in his, and suddenly all Clark could concentrate on was the texture of Bruce’s skin underneath his fingertips as he pulled him to the bed.

“You took your ring off,” Bruce whispered, turning to rest his hands hesitantly on Clark’s hips.

Clark swallowed past a lump in his throat and looked down at the ground, which was done up in the most plush carpet he’d ever seen in a hotel. “I don’t want to think about her.” When Bruce didn’t say anything, didn’t move, Clark looked up to meet his gaze. “Not while I’m with you.”

“Clark,” Bruce rasped in something so close to his Batman voice it had Clark instantly hard, “I don’t want you thinking about her either.”

And with a crushing certainty Clark knew it was he who leaned in, the the last shred of restraint he’d possessed vanishing with Bruce’s words. Their lips met, and the world disappeared.

All Clark’s focus narrowed down to that single kiss. The ever-present white noise of the city was suddenly muted; his eyes were shut and for once, he wasn’t looking through his own eyelids; his sense of touch funneled until all that mattered, all he felt, were Bruce’s lips under his. Clark’s own aggressiveness surprised him, but he groaned when Bruce gave easily under him, when he let Clark lean him back against the bed.

“This needs to come off,” Bruce panted, breaking away so he could kiss a line down Clark’s neck while he fumbled with the buttons on Clark’s shirt.

“Yes,” Clark said in a tone that too closely resembled a moan for his comfort. “Yes, god, yes-”

Bruce got impatient with the buttons, and simply ripped Clark’s shirt open, exposing Superman’s shield. It had been a close call, whether to wear the suit, but Clark figured it would look more suspicious if he hadn’t worn it. He always did.

“That shirt was a lot of money for me,” Clark complained weakly, distracted by the way Bruce was staring at the shield. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce’s fingers traced the “S” carefully. “You wore the suit.”

“Of course I wore the suit,” Clark said, slightly bewildered at Bruce’s reaction. “Why does it matter?”

“Jesus Christ-” Bruce groaned, rolling them over in one smooth motion so that he was straddling Clark. He rolled his hips slowly, sinuously, grinding his erection into Clark’s, and it took all Clark had not to break the headboard, it was so _fucking_ good.

“God,” Bruce continued, bending down to lay hot, fierce kisses down the length of Clark’s jaw. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

His voice had dropped into the Batman register again, and Clark’s eyes rolled back in his head with pleasure. “I think… I think I have an idea,” he said as soon as he found his words again. “What, you have a thing for Superman?”

Bruce’s hips stuttered into his, and Clark went almost out of his mind with lust. “No,” Bruce said, and the lie was so obvious it was clear he wasn’t trying to control his body’s responses - his heart rate skyrocketed, and his adrenaline surged. Clark growled, predatory, and flipped them back over so that he was once again on top of Bruce, this time pinning him down.

“Don’t lie to me,” Clark hissed, gathering Bruce’s wrists in his hands and forcibly holding them above Bruce’s head. Clark could physically _smell_ Bruce’s arousal spike as soon as he realized he couldn’t escape Clark, and that was the final straw.

“Jesus, Bruce, oh _Rao-_ ”

“Clark, _fuck_ , please-”

“What do you want me to do?” Clark asked quietly, bending in close to smell Bruce’s cologne the way he’d been imagining all evening. It was mixed now with the scent of sweat and lust, which just made it impossibly more attractive. “Tell me,” he commanded, remembering Bruce’s response when he’d asserted his dominance, and Bruce didn’t disappoint. He arched up into Clark’s hold, hips jerking wildly, and he offered his neck in an instinctive submissive gesture that nearly had Clark floating.

Bruce took a deep breath, then groaned, “I want you to fuck me, Superman.”

“How much do you want it?” Clark heard himself say, immediately wondering why he’d said it - of course he would give Bruce what he wanted; he would give Bruce _anything_.

Bruce half-yelled in frustration, his left hand (having wormed free of Clark’s grip due to a momentary lack in concentration) skating down Clark’s side until it gripped his hip with a hold that would have bruised a human. “Please,” he choked, sounding so desperate, so pained, that Clark had to take mercy on him. He quickly x-rayed the room for lube and immediately found that Bruce already had a small packet of it in his jacket’s inner pocket, right along next to one of his many hidden batarangs.

“You were prepared,” Clark murmured as he fished it out of Bruce’s discarded jacket and set it on the bedside table next to them.

“I’m Batman,” Bruce said jokingly, the effect diminished somewhat by his eyes, which were heavy with lust. “We’re wearing too many clothes.”

Clark couldn’t help but agree. In a pointed response for Bruce’s treatment of his own formalwear, Clark ripped Bruce’s shirt open. Buttons that, collectively, likely cost more than a month of Clark’s rent went flying in all directions, landing on the floor in a series of tiny _thuds._

“Hey, now,” Bruce complained, but his stiffening cock betrayed his words.

He wished he could pay more attention to what Bruce was saying, but Clark was focused so intently on Bruce’s chest he was getting tunnel vision again. He’d seen Bruce naked before, sure, but only in a clinical setting, only when he couldn’t spend any time looking.

So he knew Bruce had scars, but he’d never seen them like _this_.

Bruce’s chest was _littered_ with scars. There were a few that looked like they may have stemmed from potentially life-threatening injuries: matching, jagged slashes right over his kidneys, another that reached from the underside of Bruce’s ribcage all the way to his back. Then there were the smaller ones, the kind of scar one might get from knife wounds. These ran all over Bruce’s pecs, down his abs, in no particular formation, and Clark could tell which ones Alfred had sewn up and which ones Bruce had to treat himself - Alfred’s stitches were always neater. There were also four bullet wounds on the front of Bruce’s torso alone - two on his shoulders, adjacent to his clavicle; another right above his left hipbone; the last on his right side in a place where the impact must have shattered a rib. He knew he’d been looking too long, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to drink Bruce in, to paint over the scars with his lips, to trace their ridges with his tongue.

“Clark?” Bruce said quietly when Clark still hadn’t moved. His gaze snapped up to meet Bruce’s, and he felt his stomach lurch at the self-hatred he saw there. “I know it’s not… the most attractive, but-”

Clark cut him off with a kiss, then another, and another.

“Shut up,” he said as he moved down Bruce’s neck to his shoulders, where he let himself linger over one of the bullet marks, sweeping his tongue over the scar tissue with a moan. “Just - shut up, Bruce, for once in your goddamn life, and let someone-”

He stopped himself at the last minute. _Love you_? Was that what he’d been about to say? He didn’t love Bruce. This was just one time. Nobody would know about this. It would never happen again.

The thought made his chest ache.

Clark renewed his efforts with vigor in an attempt to mask his slip-up. He quickly divested Bruce of his pants, groaning at the sight of Bruce in nothing more than predictably jet-black boxer briefs, pupils blown wide with lust, staring up at him.

In a fluid motion that would have been to quick for a human to catalogue fully, Clark was on his back and Bruce was pressing down into him, quickly undoing the zip on Clark’s dress pants. He leaned back against the pillows, watching Bruce’s dextrous hands as he worked Clark’s pants off him. Clark often forgot how graceful Bruce really was, probably because he rarely saw him out of costume. Even in costume, Batman disappeared and reappeared as quickly as breathing, and was so silent even Clark couldn’t hear him unless he was actively listening for it. The only time Clark ever got to watch Batman really _move_ was when he was fighting, and even then, it didn’t compare to the almost superhuman way Bruce could maneuver out of costume. If Clark hadn’t known better, he would have thought Bruce a metahuman. The amount of control he had over his body was terrifying.

“Am I boring you that much?” Bruce asked with a self-deprecating quirk of his lips, pausing where he’d unclasped the catch that kept the top half of Clark’s suit connected to the bottom.

“No,” Clark almost yelled, so earnest was he to reassure Bruce that he was _very much_ interested in what was happening. “No, don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

Bruce’s breath whooshed out when he heard Clark swear, and he refocused on the suit. Clark reached up to run a hand through Bruce’s hair, entranced at the way it felt - short, soft, nearly silky, so different from -

“Don’t think about her,” Bruce said, causing Clark to jump - he’d often wondered if Bruce wasn’t really hiding the capacity to read minds. “With me, Clark.”

“Yeah, B,” he said as Bruce pulled the top half of his suit over his head. His voice was embarrassingly breathy. “I’m with you.”

And he was. It was that simple - he put aside everything, every thought that wasn’t about Bruce, about that moment. Every screech of sirens he heard across the bay, every high-pitched laugh coming from the party that was still going on downstairs, every heartbeat that was not Bruce’s, everything that no longer mattered, even the sound of Lois on the couch two miles away… gone.

In that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, he _lived_.


	4. I promise I won't lie to you

“This can’t ever happen again.”

It was the first real sentence either of them had spoken in almost an hour. Clark slowly turned his head so that he could look at Bruce. In profile, with the glow of Gotham behind him, he was so breathtaking Clark’s breath caught in his throat. “No,” he said after a slight pause, unsure if he was agreeing with Bruce or telling him what appeared - to Clark, at least - to be obvious: this _had_ to happen again.

“Clark.” Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “This can’t ever happen again. You’re married.”

Inexplicably, Clark’s heart sank. It wasn’t as if he had ever thought it could continue. He’d known it was a one-off going in; it was his entire justification for sleeping with Bruce in the first place. “You’re right,” he said, turning onto his back before sitting up. The bedsheets pooled around his waist and he carded a hand through his hair. “I should be getting… home.”

And he would never admit it, but he knew the way the words came out: petulant, almost, like somehow it was _Bruce_ he was mad at, just for explicitly stating what they both knew to be true.

 _Home_. How could it feel like home, after this?

“It guess goes without saying this never happened,” Clark grumbled, pulling on his suit. “Speaking moratorium and all that.”

Bruce didn’t move, exactly, but he _stilled_ somehow, momentarily holding his breath. “Of course.”

“Great,” Clark said, and now he really _was_ mad. Bruce’s heartbeat had slowed back to a crawl, and he sounded entirely unaffected. Like it really had just been one night. “Um… I guess I’ll see you around, B.” He pulled on his clothes at super speed, suddenly self-conscious of Bruce’s stare.

“Goodbye, Clark,” Bruce said softly as Clark closed the door to the suite.

Clark listened to Bruce the whole flight home. He never got up from the bed.

“Hey Smallville,” Lois said when he ducked in through the small window adjacent to their fire escape. She was sitting on the couch, CNN on in the background as she worked on an article. “How was the gala?” 

Clark’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he made a quick escape into the kitchen for a glass of water. “Boring. Stuffy. The usual,” he called back to Lois. He hesitated by the sink, and grabbed a beer instead.

“No surprises there,” Lois agreed, humming as she checked a source. Clark sat next to her on the sofa, popping the cap off his beer with just his fingers. Lois glanced over at him.

“And you didn’t bring me one?”

Clark almost laughed. He was back at her side with another beer in under a second, and she made a satisfied sound as she accepted it. Her eyes were still trained on her computer screen.

“You gonna have a good story for Perry?” she asked absently, and Clark wondered what she was working on that had her so consumed in research. Lois had always been obsessive, but Clark had come to learn that when she was this distracted, it was generally a sign that she was angry or that some major stuff was about to go down in the news.

“Something like that,” Clark said, turning away from Lois to watch CNN when he realized she wasn’t going to engage in any meaningful way. He wasn’t upset about it, but his emotions were already running high from Bruce -

 _Shut it down, Clark,_ he told himself. He was beginning to think he should just turn in early and keep an ear out for any emergencies. Even Superman had to take nights off from patrol.

Almost unconsciously, he stretched his hearing out until he found the Ritz, listening for the sound of Bruce’s heart. When he didn’t find it immediately, he frowned, widening the scope until he heard Bruce speeding onto the interstate in his Lamborghini, clearly heading back across the bay. Clark supposed it made sense. The night was still young for Batman, and Bruce never liked to take time off from Gotham. He wondered briefly if the only reason Bruce had come into Metropolis at all was to see Clark.

 _Stop_. It wouldn’t help anyone to start thinking that way.

“I’m pretty tired, Lo,” he said, draining the rest of his beer rapidly as Wolf Blitzer started up a segment. He _hated_ Wolf Blitzer. “I think I’m going to turn in.”

Lois didn’t look up from her computer as she said, “Okay. I’m going to keep working on this story. I’ll be in in a while.”

Clark nodded and kissed her on the top of her head before he retreated into their bedroom. Whenever Lois said “in a while,” it always meant Clark would wake up the next morning to find her passed out on the couch, laptop perched precariously on one knee and a half-consumed, cold cup of coffee on the table.

He brushed his teeth and collapsed in bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep but finding that his brain was still moving a little too quickly to be on pace with his body. Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing it was a complete invasion of Bruce’s privacy, Clark closed his eyes and focused on the Manor, which seemed impossibly far away despite that it was barely fifty miles from Metropolis by air.

Incredible, how the two cities could be so close geographically, yet in character so far apart.

Clark smiled to himself as he heard Alfred in the kitchen, making a cup of tea for Dick, who was sitting down in the Cave writing up a report. Clark couldn’t hear Bruce, and realized he must have gone out on patrol - alone. If he hadn’t taken Dick… well, either Dick had an exam the next day Clark hadn’t known about, or Bruce was feeling particularly anti-social.

Frowning to himself, Clark brought his attention back to his own side of the bay. As much as he wanted to listen in to Batman beating up criminals, he didn’t want to get into the habit.

Besides, he thought, his wife was right outside the door. He directed his hearing towards the living room and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the background noise of CNN and the rhythmic clacking of a laptop’s keyboard.

#

Clark only made it two days before seeing Bruce again.

They frequently had monitor duty together, as Clark was one of the only members of the JL that could withstand Bruce’s company one-on-one for longer than fifteen minutes. He arrived on the watchtower eight minutes late, silently cursing the hurricane that had hit Louisiana a few hours before. Global warming was just making his job _so_ much harder - he’d noticed a definite uptick in weather-related natural disasters over the last five years.

“I know I’m late, I’m sorry,” Clark said without prompting as he walked into the room and saw Bruce sitting in one of the chairs, distractedly flicking through viewscreens.

“Hurricane Rina,” Bruce said. “I know.” 

Clark cautiously took a seat. “You’re not gonna berate me for being late?”

When Bruce finally turned to face him, the set of his mouth was grim. “Why would I?” he asked, and Clark was mildly shocked that Bruce sounded almost offended.

“You know you don’t have to wear the mask when we’re up here like this,” Clark said, immediately wanting to shove the words back into his mouth. Where the hell had that come from? “It’s hard for me to read you when you’re wearing the cowl.” Ah, and there it was. Sometimes Clark wished he had a better grip on his subconscious-to-mouth filter. It was constantly getting him in trouble.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruce said slowly.

“Why not? It’s just us.” He needed to let it drop. He needed to stop talking.

Bruce’s frown deepened, but to Clark’s immense surprise, he disabled the defensive mechanisms on the cowl and tugged it off. His hair was pressed flat, and beads of sweat had accumulated at his brow; one droplet was finding its way down his jawline. Bruce set the cowl down gently, and ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Clark was suddenly, vividly reminded of what Bruce had looked like just a few days ago, right after -

“Better?” Bruce asked softly, breaking the tension Clark hadn’t noticed, making him want to jump Bruce’s bones right there.

Clark nodded, still caught up in the way Bruce’s pale skin nearly glowed in the light of the watchtower, how his eyes - a peculiar blue, shot through with dark flecks of brown - flared despite the dimness of the room. “Much.”

“Good,” Bruce said, turning back to the viewscreens, and Clark reluctantly tore his eyes away from Bruce to refocus on their task.

Hours passed in comfortable silence, but no crises appeared this time to shatter the illusion of calm. J’onn and Diana appeared almost simultaneously to take over, and Bruce vanished with a stealth Clark, despite his speed, could never hope to possess. He paused just long enough to tell the two that nothing of note had happened (although J’onn likely already knew that), and then focused in on Bruce’s heartbeat, finding him in one of the exercise rooms that was never used by anyone but Batman.

Clark was there in seconds, watching raptly as Bruce went through pre-workout stretches, languorously allowing his body to flow through motions and forms. Despite his best efforts, Clark felt something warm uncoil in his stomach as he tracked Bruce’s movements, gazing in awe as Bruce pulled himself into a handstand from a sitting position. His muscles weren’t even trembling.

“Are you going to explain to me why you’re standing there?” Bruce asked quietly, apparently not even slightly focused on maintaining the pose, glancing over at Clark.

Clark felt his mouth go dry as Bruce slowly lowered his legs until he was standing.

“Why are you here, Clark?” Bruce tried again, taking a couple hesitant steps in his direction.

He opened his mouth to say something intelligent, something clever, but all that came out was, “I don’t know.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Fight, or fuck?” he asked abruptly.

And Jesus, Clark really could have used some water at that moment, if only to give him an excuse to think about the question, to convince himself that _both_ were poor choices, but that only one had the potential to ruin everything.

But Clark didn’t have water, and his brain had already proven itself unreliable that day, so he took a deep breath and let the word force itself out from between his lips.

“Fuck.”

And Bruce - he crept into Clark’s space like a predatory jungle cat, gripping his chin and leaning in to press a kiss to Clark’s jaw.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Good choice.”

They fell to the mats with minimal coordination and even less grace, so intent on getting each other out of uniform the rest of the world ceased to exist for a few wild seconds.

“Does the door lock?” Clark asked as he undid the catches on Bruce’s legs at super-speed.

Bruce looked down at him; Clark was currently lying in the V of his legs, Bruce’s hands tangled in his hair. “Of course not. That could be a risk to team safety.”

Clark groaned, wanting nothing more than to fuck Bruce right there. “Should we go-”

“You can keep an ear out, can’t you?” Bruce said, making it sound like a challenge as he tugged on Clark’s hair, pulling him back in for a kiss. 

“Yes,” Clark said, not at all certain he could if Bruce kept kissing him like that, like he was a starving man and Clark was the first food he’d seen in weeks. 

“Good,” Bruce said, teeth latching onto Clark’s throat and sucking a not-bruise into the skin. “Then fuck me.”

#

“Bruce, maybe we should talk about this.”

Bruce looked up from the mat, skin shining with sweat, hair mussed, to where Clark was laying next to him.

“I would prefer not to.” Sitting up, Bruce pulled on his undershirt, which Clark had carelessly discarded in their rush to get naked. Clark watched dispassionately as Bruce dressed but left the Batsuit off; Clark supposed Bruce could always say he’d been working out if anyone were to stop and ask. Not that anyone would - he _was_ the Batman, after all.

Clark sighed heavily and reached next to him for his suit. “Yeah, okay.”

Bruce was already halfway out the door when he turned to look back at Clark. “You know this doesn’t mean anything.”

And that - that _hurt_ , but Clark merely shrugged and examined the expression on Bruce’s face; It was strange, not matching the harshness of the words. Rather, the set of his mouth was more gentle than Clark ever saw it when Batman was in costume, and his eyes held the same softness that they got whenever Bruce was interacting with Alfred or Dick. Feeling like his breath was catching in his throat, Clark looked down at his hands so that he wouldn’t have to think about what those contradictions meant. “I know,” he said, and he was proud that the words weren’t strangled at all, that they sounded steady and sure. When he looked up to see if Bruce would react, he found the doorway empty. He was already gone.


	5. things get out of hand

The _Planet_ offices were stiflingly hot, and Clark knew that if he could sweat, he would be drenched. The air conditioning unit had gone offline a week back, and Perry hadn’t been able to get someone in to fix it yet. If things had been… _different_ between Clark and Bruce, Clark wouldn’t have hesitated to call him up and complain that the owner of the _Planet_ should at the very least take care of basic maintenance to increase employee happiness.

But even though Clark still interacted with Bruce regularly at League functions, it had been three weeks since they’d been alone together. Clark was simultaneously eager to see Bruce again, yet afraid that if he did see the man one-on-one, they would simply fall into bed together once more. Clark had to avoid that. He needed to be a good husband - a good best friend - to Lois. That was just the way it was.

“Clark, I can’t do this anymore,” Lois said from where she was leaning on the desk across from Clark, startling him. Had she found out somehow? Why bring it up at work, of all places -

“I have to get back to the apartment, where there’s real AC,” she groaned, glancing up at him, sweat beading at her hairline, and Clark was vividly reminded of Bruce, splayed out on the gym mats as Clark pounded into him -

“Not all of us are able to withstand the heat as well as you,” she added, apparently taking his silence for confusion. _Snap out of it, Clark_.

He smiled and leaned over the desk to kiss her. “All right. I have to finish this article or Perry will never let me be late to work again, so I’m going to stay here a bit longer.”

“You know,” Lois said as she started shoving papers into her messenger bag, “if you spent a little less time saving the world and a bit more time doing your job, you might not be in these sorts of situations.”

Clark knew she was teasing, but he still bristled a bit - she knew that his responsibilities as Superman generally far outweighed any articles he could write as Clark Kent. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, watching the way her slender arms flexed as she slung the bag around her body, trying to silence the small voice in his brain that was screaming at him, _too lean, too tan, not Bruce_. “I’ll see you at home.”

She leaned in to kiss him goodbye and left. Time passed slowly as the office emptied around him, until at last the sky was a dusky indigo and all his coworkers had left. Clark was ready to throw his laptop out the window; the cursor blinked stupidly on the bottom of the second page, and he wasn’t sure why he was having such difficulty writing. After all, how hard was it to draft a feature piece on immigration?

Rather than throw his computer, he frustratedly threw one of his pens that had run out of ink some time before, as he was still drafting the article on a legal pad.

“You want to be careful,” a voice rumbled from the darkness surrounding Clark. “An arm like yours, this could have killed someone.” 

Clark didn’t flinch, but it was a very close thing. For all their time working together, Clark would never understand how Bruce always managed to get the drop on him - it was truly a testament to his training and insane self-control.

He turned to face Bruce as the man stepped from the shadows, a patently Batman move that looked odd and strangely alluring when Bruce did it in a three-piece suit and tie.

“What are you doing here?” Clark asked by way of greeting - very rarely were pleasantries wasted between them.

Bruce shrugged. “I heard your air conditioner unit was broken. Thought I’d come by and see what I could do to fix it.”

“Really,” Clark said dubiously. “Perry hasn’t called out a repairman, yet you still show up.”

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Bruce moved further into the light, closer to Clark’s desk. “Barry mentioned you complained about it the other night, after the meeting. I thought….” He lapsed into silence, staring down at the pen in his hand. “Well, anyways, it’s fixed.”

“Why did you really come here?” Clark asked, standing and turning to face Bruce.

“To fix the AC.”

“Bruce.”

Bruce shifted to face the windows. The light pollution was too bright in Metropolis to see stars, but Clark could see the moon behind LexCorp’s tower. It was going to be a nice night - hot, muggy, perfect for crime. And yet Bruce was in Metropolis, not Gotham, standing in front of him.

“I had to see you,” Bruce said at last, and his voice wasn’t quite steady enough to hide the tremor of something underneath. “I can’t - you’re… distracting.”

“Distracting,” Clark repeated, inching forward so as not to startle Bruce. “Explain.”

Blue-brown eyes fixed him like a pinned butterfly in the dark of the room. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Bruce said, and his calculated gaze reminded Clark of how he looked when faced with a particularly difficult problem that would actually pose a challenge for him to solve. “And I don’t know how to fix that.”

Clark considered the man in front of him: Bruce masquerading in Brucie’s clothing, his expression all Batman, and he felt something clench in his chest.

“Well,” he said slowly, “what are you going to do about it?”

Bruce stepped forward into Clark’s space, setting the pen down on his desk. “I can think of a couple things,” Bruce said, before reaching out to pull Clark into a kiss.

And god help him, but Clark let Bruce do it. In the middle of the _Planet_ offices, on a weeknight, the sun barely disappeared over the horizon, Clark lifted Bruce by his thighs and set him on a desk so that he could step between Bruce’s legs and kiss him more effectively.

“Clark,” Bruce moaned, wrapping his legs around Clark’s waist and pulling him close. Clark felt the scrape of teeth against his jawline and saw his vision flash red before he got it under control.

“Not out here, god, we can’t-”

“Just get _in_ me-”

Clark glanced down at the desk Bruce was perched on to see how much he could clear off it without it being noticeable, and his breath cut off in a gasp.

“Not out here, B, really-”

“Why?” Bruce almost whined, his fingers working steadily on Clark’s shirt.

Clark swallowed, then admitted in a shaky voice, “This is Lois’s desk.”

Bruce stopped moving entirely, then pulled back just enough to look Clark in the eye. “We don’t… have to do this,” he said slowly, in a voice so quiet it was almost a subvocalization.

“No,” Clark agreed. “But I want to.” He practically flew them into the conference room, shoving chairs out of the way so that he could lay Bruce out on the massive table. “Now, do you want to have sex or not?” His fingers were already unzipping Bruce’s pants, the jacket having been left back by Clark’s desk.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Bruce panted, closing his eyes as he watched Clark get to his knees. Clark took Bruce in his mouth, and let his mind go blank, forgetting about the Justice League, Superman, the _Planet_ , Lois. All that mattered was him and Bruce.

The rest of the world could wait.

#

Clark got home late - Bruce had left to go back to Gotham for patrol, and Clark still had to finish the damn article. As he climbed in through the window, he saw Lois at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a suitcase next to her chair, seemingly waiting for him. Clark forced his heart rate to calm - she didn’t know, she _couldn’t_ know, Clark had washed the scent of Bruce off him before coming home -

“Took you a while, didn’t it?” Lois said, and it wasn’t exactly _unfriendly_ , but it wasn’t kind either. Trying not to feel like a kid who’d been caught out past curfew, Clark threw his bag down on a chair and kissed the top of Lois’ head.

“Sorry, for some reason I was having a hard time getting it onto paper. I got hungry I had to go out and grab a sandwich, too, which took up some time.” That was a lie, and one Clark would regret in a couple hours when his stomach started making its presence known. Luckily, he would still be heading back out for a brief patrol of Metropolis before bed, and could probably pick up something while he was out - barring worldwide crises and kittens in trees.

“I know how that feels,” Lois said sympathetically, standing and pulling him to her. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her nose against his neck where, just a few hours before, Bruce had tried once again to suck a bruise into his skin. One of these days, Clark would have to figure out a way to weaken himself so that they could -

He shut off the line of thinking ruthlessly, drawing Lois close and breathing in her scent - floral, like jasmine and orange blossom, with a gentle note of musk. Nothing like Bruce. She was sturdy, yet fragile in his arms - again, nothing like the man he’d been fucking on a tabletop earlier that evening, both of them trying to see how rough they could make it without breaking something.

He loved her. _He loved her._

“Sorry I’ve been gone a lot,” Clark said, searching desperately for some way to figure out what was wrong with Lois. She wasn’t generally tactile unless Clark had recently saved her life or they were having sex, and extended hugging certainly wasn’t in her daily repertoire. Then again, they hadn’t had sex in almost two weeks, so maybe that was why -

“Perry’s sending me on assignment,” Lois said, pulling back from Clark’s embrace. “Turkey. Two weeks.”

Clark honestly didn’t know how to feel. His instinct was to protect Lois, to tell her that she shouldn’t go, that it was too close to Syria and too close to the Turkish elections. But of course, he couldn’t do that - she didn’t need a protector, and she never had. Another part of him was upset she was leaving; after all, she was his wife, his best friend.

Another, much darker part of his brain spoke with the voice of the Bat, and whispered that she hadn’t been his best friend for a very long time. That maybe it was good Lois was leaving. That it could give Clark space to _think_.

“Clark?” Lois prompted, and his attention snapped back to her.

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking,” Clark said, pausing to search for any words that would be appropriate. “Um, this isn’t just a way to get you to cover Syria, is it?”

Lois looked at him with that fire in her eyes that made him fall in love with her in the first place. “Would it matter?”

Clark sighed. “I suppose not.”

“What’s going on with you, Smallville?” Lois asked quietly, touching his arm lightly. “You’ve been… distant recently.” Clark opened his mouth to argue, but she cut across him. “Not just physically, Clark, but… emotionally, too. Even when you’re here, you’re not… _here_.”

And suddenly, with a cold, horrible certainty, Clark knew that she suspected he was cheating. She was an investigative journalist, after all. He assumed she wasn’t yet positive, which is why she was leaving - giving herself time to think about it, and giving him time to figure his shit out, though not in so many words.

Worst of all, Clark was sure she knew it was someone in the League. He’d made too many excuses, had been gone too often for League business, and although he’d only slept with Bruce a handful of times, he had been inadvertently spending more time with the JL than he had with his own wife.

He’d been stupid. Careless. And his marriage was going to pay the price.

“I guess there’s just been a lot going on,” Clark said lamely, and he knew Lois saw right through it. She sat down on the edge of their kitchen table, and although they only had two feet of distance between them, it may as well have been two miles. When did things get so bad? Was Clark really so wrapped up in his own world that he couldn’t tell when he was causing Lois pain?

She just nodded. “I leave for the airport in a half hour. Don’t… don’t visit, all right?”

Clark barely stopped himself from recoiling - even though he’d been a genuinely terrible husband, an awful person, hearing her say that still stung. He wanted to tell her that he’d visit her anyways, that he’d fly to her every night if that’s what it took. “Will you call?” he asked instead.

“‘Course I will,” she said, and she gave him a small smile - her lips twisting up just a hint at the corners, and Clark was disconcertingly reminded of the way Batman smiled at him after a successful mission.

Rao, he was _fucked._

“Okay,” Clark said, reaching out to hug her again, and he was actually surprised when she let it happen. The moment felt full, tense, significant - like they both knew that when she came back, things would be different, in one way or another.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Lois murmured into his chest, and Clark reflexively drew her closer to him, hand pressing at her lower back.

“I know, honey. I just….” He stopped, wondering what to say, what the right words would be in that moment, and knew he could never find anything to say that would make what he did all right. “It can wait until you get home.”

They stayed like that, standing in the silent kitchen, wrapped around each other, for what felt like ages, until Lois finally pulled away. Her eyes were wet, and Clark felt like part of his heart was being ripped from his chest as she wheeled her suitcase to the door. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Clark,” she said quietly, and Clark watched helplessly as a couple tears escaped her eyes and chased each other down her cheeks. _He’d_ done this to her.

“Be safe,” Clark said as she opened the door, and he looked down because he couldn’t watch her go. “I love you,” he added softly, but the door had already closed behind her.


	6. faster, we're sliding

It had been five days since Lois left, and Clark hadn’t seen Bruce once. If he’d been unconsciously avoiding Batman before, he was now actively doing everything he could to keep himself from running into Bruce in any setting. He’d called in busy to the JL meeting last night, leaving Bruce to run it without him, and had instead drifted in the stratosphere, trying to clear his mind and shut the rest of the world out. He’d filled his schedule so obsessively that it was a wonder he was functioning at all, but for all the work he’d been doing, Clark still couldn’t sleep.

When he did sleep, he dreamed of Bruce.

They always began the same way - Clark would be doing something with Lois, something normal, like getting dinner or going to Ikea or showering before work. Clark would look away, and when he looked back, it was Bruce standing there, his eyes alight with the feverish determination of the Batman, and before Clark knew it he and Bruce would be in bed - at the Manor, at Clark and Lois’s apartment, in Bruce’s quarters at the Watchtower, in the goddamn Batcave. Clark awoke achingly hard every time, and always found himself coming to the sense memory of Bruce’s lips on his, Bruce’s mouth on his cock.

So, of course, he was avoiding Bruce. If Metropolis didn’t need him and if it wasn’t hurricane season, Clark would have locked himself in the Fortress.

But, of course, supervillains didn’t wait on anyone’s schedule, least of all Superman’s.

It was just past 1:00 a.m. Metropolis time and Superman was making his third lap of the globe when his comm buzzed in his ear. Reluctantly, he answered it.

“S, come in,” came Bruce’s voice on the other end, for some reason sounding out of breath. Clark remembered how Batman had sounded the night Robin was kidnapped and started speeding towards Gotham, breaking the sound barrier along the way.

“B? I’m on my way.” He would be in Gotham in fifteen seconds, and was already trying to pinpoint Bruce’s location by using the sound of his voice.

A strange sound came over the comm, almost like a yell, and Clark, impossibly, sped up. “No, don’t - you don’t need to come here,” Bruce said, but the words were fast and mumbled.

“Too late,” Clark said as he located Bruce on top of Wayne Tower, crouched on the edge of the building too precariously for Clark’s comfort.

Bruce swore low as Clark landed on the roof behind him. “Go away.”

“You called me,” Clark pointed out, scanning Bruce for injuries and finding nothing too concerning but a gash on one thigh that had already clotted, so it must have been from earlier in the night. “Why?”

“Forget it, Clark,” Bruce said, and that brought Clark up short. Bruce never used real names when in uniform - if he wasn’t saying _Superman_ , something was very wrong.

“Who was it?” pressed Clark, speeding over so as to better gauge Bruce’s response rates, his breathing, his heartbeat. “Scarecrow?”

Bruce grimaced. “And Strange,” he confirmed, and Clark finally found the sound of Bruce’s heart, beating at a pace that seemed genuinely painful and almost unbelievable considering how steady his voice was.

“Strange again?” Clark asked, slowly reaching out a hand and drawing Bruce towards him, away from the ledge.

“Yes,” Bruce said, frowning as he grasped at Clark’s arm. “I - I need you to get me back to the Cave.”

“Where is Robin?” Clark asked suspiciously as he gathered Bruce into his arms, noting with mounting alarm how much he was shaking.

“Home,” Bruce said as his teeth began to chatter. “He has a math test tomorrow, and I couldn’t - I couldn’t take him out… after Strange, couldn’t risk him, I couldn’t-”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Clark whispered, taking off from the roof and heading West out of the city. “I’m glad you called me, it’s okay, I’ll get you home.”

“Clark…” Bruce moaned, beginning to lose consciousness. “Thank… thank you.”

“Thank me when you’re awake,” Clark said, speeding directly into the medical bay of the Cave and laying Bruce gingerly on the hospital bed that was in the Cave for nights such as these. He x-rayed the room and found the antidote, quickly stripping Bruce of the cowl and the top half of the Batsuit before loading up a syringe and carefully injecting it into his arm. Taking a deep breath, Clark sat back to wait - it would likely be a while before Bruce woke up.

If Clark hadn’t already been listening so carefully for Bruce’s heartbeat, it’s entirely possible he may have missed the soft footsteps descending the steps to the cave. A minute later, Dick peered around the doorway to the med bay, hair messy with sleep and eyes worried.

“Hey, Dick,” Clark whispered, and Dick’s eyes flickered from Bruce to Clark as if he’d just noticed Superman sitting there, too.

“Why didn’t he call me?” Dick asked, worry etched into his too-young forehead as he crossed the room to get a closer look at Bruce. “It was Scarecrow, wasn’t it? Why didn’t he have the antidote?”

“He didn’t say,” Clark admitted. “You couldn’t have gotten there in time, Dick.”

“He should have taken me with him.”

“You can’t be there every time.”

Dick stared at him, eyes suddenly hard. “Neither can you.”

“Maybe we should take this outside,” Clark suggested, sensing an argument coming.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Dick said, and the amount of Bruce that was apparent in his expression was disarming.

They walked back out into the main chamber of the Cave, and Dick took a seat in the chair in front of the Batcomputer. It made Clark feel strangely off-balance, so he floated a couple inches off the ground to reestablish the fact that he was _Superman_ , damn it, and he wouldn’t be told off by an eleven year old kid.

“I don’t know what it is you’re doing,” Dick said, “but I know something’s going on between you guys, and it’s making him miserable to be around.”

Clark started nervously, dropping back to the ground. “Oh.”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s your fault, just - fix it, okay? He’s only just started being a real person around me and it’s like that’s disappeared in the past few weeks. It’s like it was back when I first came here.”

Clark frowned - that had been a bad time to be around Bruce; his brooding to work ratio had been even more unbalanced than usual. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, staring down at his boots.

There was a slight rustle of motion, and then Dick was in front of him, wrapping his arms around Clark’s waist. “Don’t be sorry,” Dick said quietly, resting his head on Superman’s shield. “Thanks for being there for him tonight.”

“I’d do anything for you guys, you know that,” Clark said, rubbing Dick’s back as he felt the boy’s breath hitch. God, was Dick going to cry? He didn’t know how to handle that. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Probably making tea,” Dick said, gingerly stepping back from Clark and perching on the chair. “Oh, he’s coming down the stairs now.”

He was right, but it disarmed Clark that he hadn’t heard it first. “How did you-” Clark started, but was cut off by Bruce’s voice from behind him.

“Clark.”

One word and he was by Bruce’s side the next instant, unconsciously reaching for his hand. “Hey, how are you feeling?” Clark asked, one ear still trained on the main chamber where Dick and Alfred were talking.

“Like I just got hit with a lethal dose of fear toxin,” Bruce said, grimacing as he sat up. “Is that Dick I hear?”

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick called from outside, and Bruce was off the table and stalking across to the main chamber before Clark had a chance to stop him.

“Go to sleep,” Bruce said, taking the glass of water Alfred was offering him and downing it immediately. “You have school tomorrow.”

“Glad to see you’re okay,” Dick said flippantly, but Clark knew the actual sentiment behind it. Giving a meaningful glance at Clark, Dick actually started walking to the stairs, calling back, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bruce.”

As soon as Dick had disappeared, Alfred spoke up. “Well, Master Bruce, it seems you have company, so I shall leave you and Master Clark to it. Goodnight, sirs.”

And with that, they were alone again.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Clark asked, reaching out and running a hand down Bruce’s arm. He wasn’t shaking anymore.

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned into Clark’s touch. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about what you saw?”

“No.”

Clark hesitated. “I, um… well, if you’re okay, I guess I’ll go.” He turned to leave, but Bruce caught his hand.

“Stay.”

Clark stopped, searching Bruce’s eyes for some sign that he was still sick, that the antidote hadn’t worked as it was meant to. “Are you sure?”

Bruce smiled sadly. “Would I have asked if I wasn’t?”

Huffing a laugh, Clark said, “I guess not.”

“Upstairs,” Bruce said shortly, removing the bottom half of the Suit and leaving it on the floor before making his way up the staircase with Clark right behind him.

They showered, a slow affair that was almost torturous in its innocence, then fell into bed still naked and damp. Even in the Manor, it was too warm for clothes. Bruce stared blankly at the ceiling, his body rigid in the dark.

“What do you need?” Clark asked, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Bruce’s shoulder.

“Just be here,” Bruce said, closing his eyes and turning his back on Clark. “Just stay with me.”

Clark smiled into the darkness, throwing an arm across Bruce’s torso. “Always.”

When he woke up the next morning, Bruce was gone.


	7. praying I'll hold you again

Lois had been away for twelve days, and Clark was starting to panic.He hadn’t seen Bruce in a week, although not for lack of trying - none of their monitor duty shifts had overlapped, and _Bruce_ skipped out on the weekly League meeting, citing an urgent, time-sensitive case. Clark had wanted to ask what the case was, but couldn’t seem to get himself and Bruce in the same room alone.

Clark floated passively above Metropolis, watching a storm come in. Lightning was already flashing across the skyline, though the rain was still a few miles off. He wondered absently if Bruce was out in Gotham, perched on a gargoyle somewhere, smelling ozone in the air.

He couldn’t help but go over his actions again and again, trying to find some place where he’d messed up, where Bruce would have had reason to shut down so completely after they’d spent the night together. He kept coming up short of an explanation.

It was late, far past the time he would have voluntarily been out, had Lois been home. He toyed with the idea of flying to Gotham, discarding it almost as he thought it, knowing how foolish it would be to show up to the Manor and presume to intrude on Bruce’s regularly scheduled brooding.

As if on cue, his comm buzzed, but all he heard was silence on the other end. “B, is that you?”

“Come to the Cave,” Bruce said, and cut the connection.

“Well, that’s rude,” Clark grumbled as he shot off over the bay towards Gotham - but at least they could get it over with, this conversation that had been hanging over their heads, the question mark on their relationship.

Bruce was in front of the computer when Clark arrived, cowl off but Batsuit on, the chemical formula for some gaseous compound displayed on one of the computer’s many screens. “Is everything all right?” Clark asked, examining the formula and trying to match it to something he’d seen before.

“No, but it will be,” Bruce said, rounding on Clark with a syringe.

“Whoa, whoa,” Clark said, holding his hands up and taking a step back. “What the hell is that?”

“Kryptonite-tipped needle. You know the drill, Clark, give me your arm.”

“And what exactly are you inoculating me against?”

“Not a vaccine,” Bruce said shortly, taking Clark’s arm and lining up the needle. “It’s a cure.”

“Okay, stop,” Clark nearly shouted, yanking his arm back before Bruce could poke him with the syringe. “I wasn’t aware I was sick.”

“Neither was I, until last week,” Bruce said, reaching once again for Clark’s arm. “And then I ran into Strange.”

“B, you need to tell me what the hell’s going on before I let you stab me with that,” Clark said, immensely proud that his voice didn’t shake as he said it.

Bruce growled in frustration, but set the syringe down on the desk. “Do you remember when Dick was kidnapped?”

“Which time?”

“The last time. By Hugo Strange,” Bruce said, turning the full force of the Bat-glare on him. It was largely ineffective.

“Yeah, I was there. Why?”

“You dove in front of an aerosolized form of one of Strange’s toxins.”

Clark shrugged, nonplussed. “It had no effect on me.”

“That’s because it wasn’t a toxin,” Bruce said, beginning to pace. Clark hadn’t seen him so agitated in months. “The compound he used was designed to induce psychosis in humans, drive them to their basest instincts and desires.”

 _Oh, fuck_. He knew where this was going.

“Since he used it on _you_ , I’m sure the effects were limited, but they still served the same purpose,” Bruce added, cape swishing in the quiet of the Cave as he continued to pace. Rao, but he looked terrible. There were deep purple shadows under his eyes and the start of a beard on his jaw, even though Bruce usually preferred to keep clean-shaven or something close to it.

Clark took a deep breath and cut in before Bruce could say anything else. “Are you trying to tell me that everything that’s happened between us has been because of some drug made by Hugo Strange that may or may not have affected me?”

“It _did_ affect you, Clark. It’s the only explanation.”

Clark couldn’t do much more than stare blankly at Bruce. “The only explanation for _what_?”

Bruce stopped, his face an expressionless mask more stoic than the cowl. “For why you would want me.”

“Bruce,” Clark protested, “you know that’s not true. There’s no reason the drug would have stayed in my system this long, even if it had affected my judgment. This - why can’t you just accept that I-”

“Because you _don’t_!” Bruce shouted. “You love Lois, Clark, you’ve _always_ loved Lois, and you haven’t thrown me a single glance in the whole time we've known each other!”

“So what?” Clark yelled back, truly agitated now. “So what if I’ve always loved Lois? People fall out of love all the time, Bruce! You can’t just go assuming everything that happens in your life is the result of manipulation by rogues gallery!”

“When has it not been,” Bruce hissed, striding forward until he was in Clark’s space, crowding him back against the desk and the monitors. “There’s never been a single good thing in my life that Batman hasn’t fucked up, Clark, and whatever the hell this is between us is no different.”

“You really think all this was the result of Hugo Strange?” Clark asked, face mere inches from Bruce’s.

“Yes,” Bruce growled. “I know it is.”

Clark closed his eyes tightly, willing his breath to slow down so that he wouldn’t inadvertently freeze half the Batcave. “Fine. If taking this antidote is the only way to make you understand that this wasn’t all because of some altered state, that this was _real_ , I’ll goddamn do it.” He reached behind himself, grabbed the syringe, and jabbed the needle into his arm.

“Good,” Bruce sighed, retreating a few steps to put some space in between him and Clark. “Just forget about all this, Clark. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. Go back to your wife.”

Carefully, Clark set the syringe down by the Batcomputer, then advanced on Bruce, slowly as not to alarm him. “I can’t just forget about this,” he said honestly. “I don’t want to.”

Bruce glanced over at the syringe, then back at Clark. “It should have kicked in by now.”

“And I told you, I wasn’t drugged.”

“But Strange said….”

“He said something to you last week?” Clark guessed. “While you were under the influence of Scarecrow’s fear toxin.”

Bruce was staring at him with a mix of wonder and horror in his eyes, like he’d been given the best gift imaginable but was afraid someone would come to take it away. “Yes.”

“He was lying,” Clark said simply, wanting to reach out, afraid of Bruce pulling away. “Of course he was lying, you stubborn, gorgeous man.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Bruce said automatically, then grimaced when he realized what he’d said.

“It’s late,” Clark said, finally closing the distance between them and moving to disassemble the Batsuit. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“You’re staying,” Bruce said, and it was probably meant to be a question but his voice was so hollow it sounded like a statement of fact.

Clark touched his cheek gently. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He scooped Bruce up, ignoring his protests, and flew them up to Bruce’s bedroom.

“I still had work to do,” Bruce protested as Clark laid him out on the bed.

“It can wait till morning.”

They undressed each other slowly, no ripped clothes or popped buttons, revealing strips of skin almost reverently. When Clark finally removed Bruce’s undershirt, he leaned down to lick along the lines of the scars Bruce was so self-conscious of, one hand moving down to work on removing the codpiece. Bruce’s lips were pressed so tightly together they looked like a white line, and Clark crawled back up his body to kiss them.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Bruce shut his eyes and exhaled in one long gust. “You know what I want,” he whispered, one hand moving up to wind itself into Clark’s hair.

“Say it anyway.”

And then blue-brown eyes met his in the darkness, just as a shaft of moonlight fell across the bed. It made Bruce glow with an almost ethereal beauty, and Clark realized he would do anything for this man if it meant getting to see him like this at the end of the day. “Please, Clark. Please fuck me.”

Clark smiled, moving back down Bruce’s body until he was settled in between his legs. He removed the bottom half of the Batsuit with the first bit of super-speed he’d used yet, and his mouth was on Bruce’s cock the next instant.

“Oh, fuck,” Bruce swore, hand gripping Clark’s hair so tight it would have been painful if Clark had been human. “Yes, fuck, yes.”

Clark worked his shaft slowly, focusing most of his attention on the head and letting his hand get to whatever he couldn’t reach. He pulled off, still using his hand to slowly jerk Bruce off, and licked a broad stripe from Bruce’s perineum all the way to the tip of his cock.

“Rao, you taste so good,” Clark murmured, the words muted and deadened by the darkness surrounding them. Bruce looked so at home in the darkness.

“Stop… teasing,” Bruce choked out, hand groping wildly for the lube on his bedside table. Clark saw the intent and grabbed it, back again before Bruce had time to miss the feel of Clark’s body on his.

Clark worked him open slowly, like they had all the time in the world, like they weren’t superheroes that could be called away at a moment’s notice to protect and defend the planet.

“More,” Bruce pleaded when Clark had two fingers in him, canting his hips up so that Clark had better access, cock dragging precome across his stomach. “Go faster, you sonofoa-”

Clark nipped gently at Bruce’s hipbone, obligingly inserting a third finger. “I don’t want to rush this,” he whispered into Bruce’s skin, his other hand working its way up Bruce’s chest to tease at a nipple.

There was something heavy, unspoken, in the air between them. A sense that this could be the last time. Lois was returning the day after next, and they still hadn’t talked about it, and Clark didn’t want to rush it, because if he did, it would be over. It would be the end.

Bruce seemed to know it, too, and arched up into Clark’s touch as he finally brushed Bruce’s prostate, breath coming in short bursts, whispered curses falling like rain around them. Soon, however, he was pushing back urgently against Clark’s fingers, his neglected cock begging for any small touch, any release.

“Condom?” Clark asked quietly, unceasing in his ministrations.

Bruce shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, pulling Clark up so he could kiss him. “I want to feel you, want you to come inside me.”

Hot, heavy arousal spiked through Clark at Bruce’s words, and without needing more prompting he slicked his cock with lube and lined himself up. This was their first time fucking face-to-face, and it was so much more intimate than he’d expected - Bruce leaned in to capture his lips, legs wrapping around Clark and urging him to press forward.

So he did, sliding home in one slow push until he felt Bruce tense around him, felt him trying to adjust to the stretch. “Are you okay?” Clark asked, peppering Bruce’s face with kisses - on his eyebrows, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.

“Yes,” Bruce said, opening his eyes and turning his face to capture Clark’s mouth. “Move.”

It was languorous, a slow slide of bodies, worlds removed from the furious fucking that had become the trademark of their past encounters. The intimacy would have been unbearable were it not for the gentleness of the dark, the way the shadows lengthened as they moved together, sharing kisses, sharing breath. Clark bent down to press a kiss to Bruce’s clavicle, and Bruce moaned, encouraging Clark to turn the kiss into a small bite, his tongue laving over the spot as he pulled back to inspect his work.

“Fuck, Clark,” Bruce groaned, head thrown back in ecstasy despite the slow pace of the sex, eyes glassy and distant. “Yes, mark me, _fuck-_ ”

Without thinking, Clark leaned down and did it again, this time at the juncture between Bruce’s throat and his shoulder, sucking _hard_ as he gently bit into the sensitive skin. “Mine,” he said without thinking, but Bruce’s hips stuttered at the claim, the word settling around them like a fog.

“Yes, _fuck_ , yes,” Bruce said, rolling his hips in an attempt to get Clark to move faster.

Encouraged, Clark increased the pace, pulling Bruce’s head to the side in order to gain better access to his neck before attacking it again. “ _Mine_ ,” he growled, lost in the way Bruce’s pulse sped up, the way his blood rushed faster underneath Clark’s lips.

“Yours,” Bruce agreed, his voice raw with pleasure and some strong emotion Clark couldn’t let himself examine because if he did, and if this was the last time, then -

“Faster, please,” Bruce pleaded, and Clark, unable to refuse him anything, complied.

“You feel so good,” he groaned into Bruce’s neck before venturing up to capture his lips in a heated kiss. “God, Bruce, what you do to me-”

“Clark, I need-”

“Yes-”

He wrapped a hand around Bruce’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Bruce _lost_ it, nails raking down Clark’s back in a way that would have torn the skin of a human, but felt like a caress to someone with invulnerability.

“Shit, Clark, I’m gonna come, I can’t-”

“Yeah B,” Clark said, clinging to the last shreds of his self-restraint, knowing he needed to wait for Bruce, “it’s okay baby, come on, come for me.” The words were nonsense, a reflex, but they seemed to work. Bruce came with a strangled shout, his entire body locking up with muscle spasms as he came in ropes across their chests, Clark working him through the orgasm until it must have been uncomfortable, but Bruce didn’t push his hand away.

“Come on, Clark, come in me, I want to feel you fill me up,” Bruce whispered, his voice weak with release, and it was that wrecked sound that finally sent Clark over the edge as he held onto Bruce’s hips hard enough to bruise and thrust twice more before he stilled and he came with a shout, vision literally blacking out from the force of it.

When he felt he could move again, Clark rolled off Bruce and carefully pulled out. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Bruce’s forehead before walking to the bathroom to grab a washcloth with which to clean them up. He got back in bed and pulled Bruce to him, wiping away the come so it wouldn’t dry on Bruce’s chest before cleaning up stray lube and the come that was currently leaking out of his lover’s body.

That done, he gathered Bruce in his arms, murmuring his approval as Bruce shifted to rest his head on Clark’s chest.

“Will you be here in the morning?” Clark asked quietly, aware that even as he spoke Bruce’s pulse was indicating how close he was to sleep.

“Will you?” Bruce murmured, but he fell asleep before Clark could think of how to answer.


	8. I could be in love (with someone like you)

Clark woke the following morning to sunlight streaming through the balcony windows, catching dust motes swirling in the still air of the bedroom. Bruce was still wrapped in his arms, a fine layer of sweat covering his body due to the heat and the proximity to one Kryptonian who could serve as a personal body heater if the need arose. Clark briefly wondered what had woken him - Bruce was still sound asleep - before he looked up to see Alfred in the bedroom doorway, carrying a breakfast tray.

To his credit, the butler didn’t look at all surprised to see the two men tangled up in Bruce’s bed. He merely nodded and left the room, returning ten minutes later with a small cart that held enough food and coffee to satisfy at least four men.

“Good morning, Master Clark,” he said, wheeling the cart over next to the bed. “I trust you slept well.”

Bruce stirred in Clark’s arms at the sound, face instinctively turning away from the bright sunlight, but he didn’t actually move out of Clark’s embrace. He’d count that as a win.

“Very well, Alfred, thanks,” Clark said, smiling as he felt Bruce’s pulse pick up - he was awake, and undoubtedly already aware of the position they were in.

“Alfred, I hope you brought coffee or I’ll never forgive you for this,” he grumbled, voice muffled by way of Clark’s chest.

“I did, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, opening the balcony doors to let in some fresh air before making his way back to the door. “You have a meeting with the board in an hour and a half. Shall I tell them you’ll be late, sir?”

“What kind of question is that?” Bruce asked, finally looking up at Alfred. His hair was a complete mess, and the effect of the Bat-glare was lessened somewhat by the whole image.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred said before backing out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Bruce collapsed back on Clark’s chest. “What time is it,” he asked, voice still raspy with sleep.

“Ten,” Clark said, carefully moving Bruce off him so he could get them both coffee.

“Ten? Nobody should be awake at ten,” Bruce said, only sitting up when he saw Clark holding out a cup of coffee, black, just the way he knew Bruce liked it.

In the light of day, Clark looked over Bruce’s body, saw the bite marks and hickeys he’d kissed into the pale skin, and felt his stomach turn at the bruises on Bruce’s hips. He made an abortive movement to touch the marks before looking down at his hand and realizing he was still wearing his wedding ring. He snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. Alfred must have seen it - Alfred knew Clark was married, of course, but catching them together like this, with the band still on Clark’s finger -

“Clark,” Bruce said, cutting across his frantic thoughts. “About last night….”

And here it was - the point where Bruce would end it entirely, send Clark back to Lois, tell him that it was the right thing to do, that they would forget it and try to move on with their lives.

When Clark glanced over at Bruce, he found the other man staring at his coffee cup, his body turned away from the sunlight, away from Clark.

“What?” he asked, and the question came out more as a croak, because he didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to give this up.

Bruce frowned at his coffee, and then spoke so quietly Clark might not have heard him if he wasn’t Superman.

“I want you to leave your wife.”

The whole world stood still, and Clark’s heart stopped right along with it, because suddenly, everything fell exactly into place.

He swallowed, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Okay.”

Bruce glanced up at him sharply, shock plain on his face. “ _Okay_?” he said disbelievingly. “That’s all you’re gonna say? _Okay_?” He paused, took a breath, and continued in the same voice, “This is Lois. Your _wife_. And you’ll just… _walk away from her_?”

Clark looked Bruce straight in the eye, because he knew that Bruce needed to truly _hear_ what he said next. “Well… yeah, Bruce. I’m in love with you. What else am I going to do?”

Bruce froze, and the coffee cup looked to be in danger of slipping out of his hands, so Clark grabbed it and set it on the nightstand.

“You’re in love with me.” His voice was so quiet, so perplexed, that Clark almost wanted to cry.

“How could I not be?” he said instead. “You’re my best friend. The person I go to when I need to talk something through, the first one I call when something comes up as Superman that I’m not strong enough to handle on my own. You’re who I think about before I go to sleep every night, the one I dream about, and the first person I want to see when I wake up every morning.” Bruce wasn’t making any move to speak, so Clark plowed on ahead. “You’re brilliant, and passionate, and you challenge me to be better than I ever thought possible.

“So yes, I’m in love with you. How could I not be?”

Bruce stared at him like he was seeing Clark for the very first time, before reaching out to trace Clark’s lips with the tips of his fingers. “You’re in love with me,” he said again, more certain this time, with wonder in his voice.

“Yes, you idiot. So I’ll leave Lois, because even though I love her, I can’t live without you.”

Bruce leaned in and planted a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I….” He stopped, then took a deep breath. “I’m in love with you too. I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come around,” Clark whispered.

Bruce smiled. “That’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> pls no mean remarks or concrit. my chronic anxiety appreciates your restraint :) positive comments are appreciated, as are kudos! thank you for reading!!
> 
> so I have a sequel planned for this; therefore, this is now a series. so that's gonna be a thing.
> 
> EDIT: Have begun writing sequel, complete with substantially more Dick, Lois, and feelings. I hate you all. <33


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